


the sun will set for you

by landiskilgore



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Breaking Up & Making Up, Canon Compliant, Developing Relationship, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Infidelity, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, F/M, Mutual Pining, Older Man/Younger Woman, Sort Of, among other things, blackbirds are symbolic here, but can't say what they really mean, mentions of Adler's ex-wife, return of bell's cat and mixtapes, these two idiots in love, title is from a linkin park song, what if bell and adler got their happy ending?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:41:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29172807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/landiskilgore/pseuds/landiskilgore
Summary: "Take a gamble that love exists, and do a loving act." - Sister Calderón, 1899, "The Fine Art of Conversation."Adler puts everything on the line for the one person he's willing to surrender it all for.
Relationships: Russell Adler/Bell, Russell Adler/Original Female Characters(s), Russell Adler/Reader
Comments: 40
Kudos: 46





	1. the only one i'll ever have

**Author's Note:**

> i've been kinda stuck on my next few chapters for "you were trouble by design", so until i figure that out, why not make a semi-happy fic for once in my life? if you read the last lines of that fic's third chapter, this is basically that other world where adler decides that loving bell isn't such a bad idea lmao
> 
> title's from "shadow of the day" by linkin park and i HIGHLY recommend it, it's one of the greatest songs ever, aha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been kinda stuck on my next few chapters for "you were trouble by design", so until i figure that out, why not make a semi-happy fic for once in my life? if you read the last lines of that fic's third chapter, this is basically that other world where adler decides that loving bell isn't such a bad idea lmao
> 
> title's from "shadow of the day" by linkin park and i HIGHLY recommend it, it's one of the greatest songs ever, aha

_**sometimes goodbye's the only way.**_

* * *

**the Safehouse, West Berlin - three weeks after Solovetsky**

_"My love's not wholly impersonal, yet not wholly subjective either."_

Sylvia Plath's words wove themselves within the walls of the safehouse, echoing, stripping away the veneer of winter as it receives the advent of spring. He's familiar with it, although his memory doesn't extend beyond few instances—whether through former colleagues' awful re-interpretations, or the brief times he caught his ex-wife rambling on about the beautiful tragedy of it years prior.

Until now, as his former protégé (and would-be killer, weeks prior) sits in her corner of the safehouse, reading aloud.

Her survival sent _hurricanes'_ worth of chaos back to Washington, to the commander-in-chief responsible for giving him the order. Risking everything he's ever had, his longstanding position of respect (not just as an agent, but as a patriot, dedicated to serving his country)... all because he gave it a second thought. Hesitation, doubt.

But now... as he watches her recite Plath in a quiet, pensive tone, he's starting to believe it _wasn't_ hesitation—instinctual, burning with sheer determination as three (seemingly) insignificant words pounded against his temple, bearing down like the sun's harsh ripples of warmth against his back that early morning.

Not that he'll ever tell her those words.

_"I would like to be everyone; a cripple, a dying man, a whore..."_

Trembling fingers reaching across the pages, skimming towards the top corner—noticeably dog-eared, a poem she's revisited long before he returned from his smoke break—a pang of something incredibly similar to _guilt_ tightening his chest upon noticing the... _extensive_ , macabrely nature of her injuries. Doctors saved what they could, but Adler knows it will be a long time (if ever) until she regains proper usage of her left hand.

Her throat, bearing recent marks of her life-saving surgery, sutures neatly intact—and with such injuries, brings a raspy, harrowing voice, so unlike her voice before.

 _"Janis Joplin meets Stevie Nicks,"_ something he caught from a conversation between her and Woods, evidently his attempt at a glass-half-full approach, only to fall flat.

Although she isn't the only one to bear the scars of that disconcerting day, his are worth a fraction in comparison to the severity of hers. His scratches on his cheek (her narrow attempt at evening out his face) are healing well, the bullet he took to the shoulder leaving nothing more than a circle-shaped scar and some ugly bruising, amongst more.

Nothing that screams _"Damaged beyond repair."_

Cigarette between his teeth, inhaling pint-sized billows of smoke, arms folding across his chest as he studies her, searching for an answer that could open the floodgates, bring an iota of common sense, if only to stifle his ever-growing belief that it wasn't an astronomical mistake in letting her live, giving her a chance to begin anew.

Utterly frustrated to find his efforts remain futile, and he feels like he's just staring at her like some old coot, leering from the bar at every pretty thing with two legs as they walk by.

_Focus._

Of course, his efforts in trying are just as futile; after all, it is _extremely_ difficult not to keep your guard up around someone who hates you with a burning passion, polite etiquette refraining her from being upfront about it.

As for her new leaf... that's another issue in the making.

Aside from the life given to her (a permanence in itself, really), typed into a dossier where it will remain for the remainder of her tenure within the CIA—she has _nothing_.

Most of her remaining relatives are dead—save for her brother, having gone missing from official records dating back to a brief tenure within the Petropavlovsk Gulag. Her country won't take back a traitor, a commonality she now shares with Belikov following their attack on the Lubyanka building in early March.

All she has is the CIA... which isn't worth much to her these days.

And as he waits for her trembling, shaky fingers to turn the page, he finds nothing to indicate mistakes he's so keen on seeking, nothing to validate his concerns. As if she isn't a mistake to dwindle on, a choice to reconsider making.

_"... and then come back to write about my thoughts, my emotions, as that person."_

A pause, heavy sigh following suit—noticing the subtle, downward tilt of her head, away from the pages. Such a lightweight book, and yet it's almost _sad_ to witness her struggle against dropping it, even with both hands balancing it across her palm.

_"But I am not omniscient. I have to live my life—"_

_"—And it is the only one I'll ever have."_

He didn't mean to startle her, hands going up in defense, reassuring her just so, hating how her eyes darken upon the sight of him, defenses up and guarded posture angling herself away from him.

It's a poem his ex-wife adored, something he'd catch her reciting at odd hours during their marriage (which, he admits, is one of few moments he actually spent in her presence; a contributing factor in their subsequent divorce), so he just... said it.

Away the book goes, setting it next to her as she swings her legs down from the table, moving to escape his proximity.

Wariness, distrust. Not that blames her, no; it took _him_ a while to adjust to her presence after Solovetsky.

"Easy, kid," he says, ashing his cigarette under his boot, "I didn't mean to do that. I just came to tell you about our new orders."

Her expression says it all, without having to say anything at all. **_Our_** _new orders?_

"We're due to return back to Langley; our flight's set to depart within the hour. I managed to talk Hudson into giving you a new position at Langley—you'll be working primarily with analysts due to your skillset, but that's not exactly your job."

A desk job is far beneath her, but it's all he could get after having her pardon granted. Nobody trusts her—save for maybe Mason and Woods—and putting her out into the field again, so soon after Solovetsky... it puts her at great risk. Hudson thinks she'll turn tail if the opportunity presents itself, while he's just concerned about the great lengths the KGB (and Perseus itself) will go to silence her once her allegiances are cemented.

Oh, she's not the first Russian to make uneasy allegiances. But if Weaver and Belikov can make a life within the CIA, so can Bell.

No matter what Hudson thinks of her, Adler saved her for a reason—he wouldn't have considered it if he didn't think she could change.

 _Make do with what she's got_ , like Woods always tells her.

"I don't want it," she says, voice hoarse with disuse, has her involuntarily wincing. "I'm not a pencil-pusher, Adler."

"Believe me, we share the sentiment, kid. But there's nothing I can do, for now at least. Keep your head down and your work consistent for a few months, and I can pull strings to reinstate you as a member of my team—"

"—Yeah, don't bother. I'll take the desk job any fucking day over _that_."

It's a biting jab he wasn't prepared to hear, which she takes immediate notice of, muscle in her jaw twitching indignantly. "Saving my life and earning me a federal pardon won't score you brownie points, Adler. What would you like me to say? That I'd be _delighted_ to re-join your team? That I'm to believe you're doing this out of the kindness of your heart? Thanks, but no thanks—I owe you nothing anymore. No matter whose dick you had to suck to get me a headstart."

Walking past him, towards her room to pack without sparing another glance, nor to his gaze boring into the back of her skull.

As harsh as that was... it's fair. She has a right to be angry—and that anger's completely justified. He is an embodiment of exploitation, of selfish measures for selfish gains. Even after pulling her file, giving it to her after great hesitation against it (and Park's objection against it, as well) and returning what remains of her old life to her shattered memory, she _resents_ him. Resents him for stripping her of agency, imbuing false memories to replace the old, neglected and forgotten.

It's fair and just, which is more than he deserves.

Returning after several minutes, bag packed—in the midst of putting away a Pink Floyd mixtape and her Sylvia Plath poems—before greeting him at the doors of the safehouse. It won't be his last time coming here, but that's not the case for her.

Reconvening with the rest of the group on the plane, her with Mason and Woods, him next to Park, Sims, and Hudson—the latter practically _glaring_ right through her, even from their spot on the plane. Still growing accustomed to her very existence, it seems.

It's a long, eleven-hour flight back to Washington, and the majority of the flight included subtle passive-aggression from both Bell and Hudson (neither finding the maturity to confront the other), all while Bell refuses to even _acknowledge_ Adler's presence.

Instead, she's got her nose buried in her Plath novel, and her mixtapes to keep her company.

_One of the few things he'll miss about her._

Plane touches down at dawn, and without fault, she stands from her seat (next to a half-asleep Woods), just as Hudson takes it upon himself to make way towards her for the first time since they boarded the plane. "Time to go." A biting, seething remark, heading out to the tarmac without her.

"You're always welcome to visit up in Alaska," Mason says to her, offering a small smile to her—immediately receiving one in kind.

Pulling the strap of her bag taut across her shoulder, moving to join Hudson outside, but he finds himself unable to let her walk away without a proper goodbye, even if she'll always resent him. Even if she'd rather abandon the memory of him, along with the deception he's poisoned her mind with.

His hand pressing into her arm, gently insisting her backward—surprised she even allows him to touch her.

"Kid," he doesn't even know where to start, and yet the words tumble out, all the same. "For what it's worth... you'll always have a place on the team."

It's not what he wanted to say, but it's the next best thing.

Almost instantaneously, her entire being seems to shift, a pliant softness overwhelming the hard ridges of her scowl, the fine line between discomfort and anger vanquishing underneath his touch. Although her expression becomes impassive, there's something undeniable—untold, almost—hidden across the brown of her eyes. As quickly as it came, it disappears.

Receiving a curt nod in response, a subtle shake of her arm for him to release it.

"Goodbye, Adler," she whispers, disappearing out towards the tarmac.

From where he stands, a clear glimpse through the window shows her and Hudson walking towards a waiting carpool. Until she pauses, his heart pulsating against his ribcage with tight uneasiness, _(excitement goes unsaid)_ as she turns back, seemingly locking eyes with him.

Common sense tells him that there's no way, not with the tinting on the windows. And yet, her piercing gaze seems to disregard that fact, sunrise blossoming across her irises, a beautiful hazel in its radiating gaze. There's a green to the brown of her eyes... another lasting detail, fully attaching itself to the memory of her.

_Why does it feel like that's the last time he'll ever be graced with such beauty?_

Immediately, he's reminded of their terse exchange in Berlin, the last lines of Plath that sets his nerves aflame, forever clinging to the idea of her, even as they part ways.

_I have to live my life, and it is the only one I'll ever have._

"Live a good life, kid," he whispers in the blank space where she stood. "Live _your_ life..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one down, five to go :) i'll try my best to pace this story as evenly as possible, but let me know how you guys feel about this little adler/bell thing i've got going on (or if i've made adler a lil ooc lol)
> 
> i know i promised some happy stuff, and happy stuff is what you'll get in due time, hold me to that.


	2. all i see is you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1983.
> 
> Life goes on. It's an inevitability, a difficult part of life one must adjust to in order to carry on—but nothing could've prepared him for how violently his heart lurches on that lonely walk down memory lane, on just another Christmas Eve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can i just say before you go into this? if you're prone to crying suddenly, please keep a box of tissues within reach and accept my virtual hugs and apologies XD i know i fucking cried making this bad boi
> 
> towards the end, i HIGHLY suggest giving "clementine" by Halsey a listen, it's what i modelled the title of the chapter off of (and listened to during the second last scene) and it gave me SO MANY FEELS I CAN'T EVEN TELL YOU :') please give me the benefit of the doubt here, give it a listen... i swear you will not regret it

_**my face is full of spiderwebs, all tender yellow blue** _

_**and still with one eye open;** _

_**well, all i see is you** _

* * *

**Langley, Virginia - December 24th, 1983**

_Happy holidays this, Merry Christmas that._

It's everywhere he goes, and it gets easily tiresome, annoying. That being said, it's understandable.

Understandable, considering the wild circumstances that came with the whirlwind that was 1983—ranging from the hurricane down in Texas, off-planet space missions (an ode to Star Trek, if anything), and a prominent one, which wholly concerns him—the team's latest mission in Grenada, one of few places he expected his job would take him, returning just as the rest of the world begins to celebrate another year come and passed.

People want to rejoice in a sense of normalcy, for once—and his biases won't change that.

Last time he had a proper Christmas celebration, he was still married. Nothing's changed since then, except for his increasingly bitter, grim outlook on such occasions.

He doesn't consider himself an archetypal Ebenezer Scrooge, no. Jacob Marley, perhaps; doomed to roam purgatory forever, bound in chains made of his own apathy, his blatant disregard for those around him. Hell, purgatory is wishful thinking, easy and banal compared to eternal damnation.

At least Marley got the chance to redeem those close to him—Adler doubts he will ever be afforded such opportunities.

"Someone's got the holiday blues," Sims circles around his desk, setting down a steaming cup of coffee on his desk, "what's going on, Doc? You're real quiet this morning."

"Just haven't had my coffee yet—until now, that is."

Taking a sufficient sip of said coffee (ignoring the burning scald on his tongue), does nothing to deter Sims—who's got a strange look on his face, a snark-riddled smirk. "You know, I like to think that after... what? Twenty-ish years of knowing you? I'd like to think I know you well enough to know when something's annoying you. What happened, did Hudson piss in your cornflakes? No, hold on, that analyst with the drinking problem—"

"—Stephanie," he adds, digging into his pocket for his pack of Reds. Noting the _obvious_ look on Sims' face, as if Adler knowing her name brings him disappointment. "I didn't ask for it, if that's what has you glaring at me."

"Whatever you say, Doc. My point is, something's got your panties in a bunch, and I wanna know why. What's going on?"

At this point, he's caught himself within a vexing dilemma; if he keeps mum, Sims won't drop it until he figures it out—but if Adler bothers himself with revealing details of an issue that shouldn't have bothered him (yet does, all the same), it'll instigate a pity-party, a concept he finds annoying in itself, multiplied tenfold because it's the holidays... how miserable do you have to be during the _most wonderful time of the year?_

Reaching into his nearest file cabinet, pulling out a folded newspaper (dated nearly two weeks ago, mind you), shoving it across his desk towards Sims, irritated sigh heavy on his lips. "Page nine," he informs, lighter flickering in the dim light of his office.

Doesn't take Sims long to discover what's been annoying Adler, eyes skimming down the pages until he finds what he's looking for. Sharp intake of breath, lowly curses following suit as he points towards the source of Adler's vexation. "Is that—?"

"Yeah."

"Damn... shit, Adler, I shouldn't have asked. Sorry, man."

"I wouldn't bother—you're not the one marrying my ex-wife."

Indeed, the woman's found herself a respected man of society; an _aspiring_ _politician_ , because of course, her standards increased after an awful divorce from a PTSD-riddled veteran. He doesn't blame her, no. Their final years together were detrimental, enough for her to walk out on him (as she should've long before it sunk to such low levels of animosity, bitterness and disgust), turning over a new leaf in New York as an architect.

It shouldn't have come as a surprise, most couples get engaged during this time of year.

But reading about _her_ engagement was... unexpected, but that's not why he's annoyed. It's involuntary, brings another reminder of why he doesn't celebrate holidays anymore; it just feels like he's still the same man as he was during their marriage, while she's made an incredible life out of their divorce. Just... stuck in one place.

"Shit," Sims curses again, throwing the newspaper back on Adler's desk, "and she didn't even tell you about it."

"Why would she? It's no secret how our marriage ended—I don't expect her to give a shit about what I think, and that's fine."

"You know what I mean, Doc. But I guess I won't know until I get myself a wife, hm?"

"You want my advice? Don't get one," he smartly remarks, ashing his cigarette in a nearby ashtray—ironically, the last gift she ever bought him. "There are better things to discuss than my failed marriage and engaged ex-wife, Sims. So unless that's all you wanna talk about—"

"—It's not, actually. I was supposed to be extending you an invitation—I'm going out with Mason and Woods tonight, this bar just opened up in Richmond."

 _Richmond._ Almost two hours of driving distance. Besides, Adler was hoping to spend another Christmas alone (or perhaps bother analyst Stephanie for some late-night company, an indulgence in spirits considering the absurd amount of whiskey in his liquor cabinet—a proclivity of hers, as he's seen), rather than go out of his way to bounce around the dive bars in Richmond. That being said... Sims is looking at him like he's a beaten dog, just crying out for some form of attention.

He'd rather not live up to such high expectations, so what's the harm in a few hours' worth of good company with old pals?

"You're not going to leave until I agree, aren't you?"

"You'd be breaking ol' Woods' heart, that's for sure," Sims remarks, "think of it as an ode—a tribute, actually—to Lazar. He'd want us to do it."

"Pity parties won't help your case, either. I'll go. You'd be sparing me from having to ask out a rather... _inebriated_ analyst just down the hall."

"Wonderful. We would've asked Park, but as it turns out, Century House is particularly unwilling to give her up 'round this time. And Woods insisted he wouldn't go if we brought Hudson along, and I quote, _'that dipshit wouldn't know fun if it broke into his house and slept with his wife'_."

_Lovely imagery._

Sims makes himself scarce after finalizing other minuscule details, leaving Adler alone with his ineffectual newspaper, which in hindsight, should've been promptly thrown out once he read the first line of her engagement article. _We invite you to witness the union between—_

He promptly tosses it into the trash, not sparing another glance downwards, ashes his smoke, turning towards the window behind his desk. Noting how elegantly stunning winter can be when you're not knee-deep in snow, having lost feeling in your ears and nose thirty minutes into shoveling the driveway. A strange, infrequent sight happens upon a nearby tree, a flock of birds—more accurately _blackbirds_ , a bird he hasn't seen in large numbers before, much less in the unhinged mandible of winter.

A rare sight that doesn't strike his curiosity, but gives pause to enjoy the brief sight, until it disappears, flock traveling eastbound, silhouette swallowed within the sun.

Engagement... maybe it's a sign. Either to make himself useful to another woman, or a sign that he's _already_ useless, as is.

An unwarranted thought flickers across his mind, carving a sliver of space within his memory in milliseconds—once it's there, it's there, and he _hates_ how his immediate association of being engaged goes back to _her._ Not quite the one who got away—but undeniably, irrevocably feels like it—the moment she stepped off that plane. Sunlight cast across haunting, indelible eyes of sepia, his last memory of her in the last two years since her departure.

It's as if the moment she went with Hudson inside that car, she vanished without a trace, amidst thin air, never to be seen again. Wherever she is, he hopes she's found the good life she was searching for. Made do with what she had.

He only asked about her once. Nearly six months after she left.

_How's Langley treating her?_

_I wouldn't know because she didn't take the position. So much for that, all that groveling you did me in for... and she didn't even take it._

_Well, she was never cut out for a desk job, anyways. Did she say why she wanted to leave?_

_If she did, I didn't bother noticing. Get ready, we're leaving for DC within the hour—President wants us to handle an issue down in Cuba. Shouldn't take longer than a few weeks, at best._

Famous last words. No doubt, it was meant to last several weeks. Until it escalated back in October, forcing the US to intervene on Cuban soil. And now, he's home (for however long it'll take until the next civil unrest that needs resting), preparing to indulge himself in _copious_ amounts of spirits and good company (not that he considers Woods to fall under that category on most days), ringing in another year of perpetual existence, omitting any true sense of a life being lived, as of late.

Perhaps that's not a good thing, but with any luck, he'll forget he ever thought about it when the night's over.

"Should've said no," he mutters, swiveling around in his chair—only to make eye-contact with analyst Stephanie outside his office, having brought herself across to his floor (hands completely filled to the brim with copious files), smiling at him in a way that makes him teeter towards the edge of vague discomfort.

_It better be worth it if he's considering relegating himself to the company of an alcoholic co-worker._

* * *

**Richmond, Virginia - 9:45 pm**

_How can one commit self-immolation on the spot?_

A tangible idea worth considering, if it's half as spectacular as this night should've been (glass-half-full approach, as Mason coins it), he'll undoubtedly commit to doing it within the hour. Woods is on his fourth beer, Mason on his third whiskey, and Sims is their designated driver, sticking to a club soda. He's barely in his second glass of whiskey, and already a sinking feeling simpers within his insides, coiling in on itself like a cornered snake waiting to strike.

Indeed, that's exactly how he's feeling—a cornered snake, suffocating under the intense fluorescent lights and scent of cheap beer, his last resolve burning up in the atmosphere with it. Waiting to strike if provoked...

"You're looking a little pale, Doc," Sims says, leaning close to have a proper conversation, "is it the lights? That shit's bothering me, too, don't worry."

"I'm fine," he reprimands, leaving no room for disagreement. "Just making sure Woods isn't gonna start a bar fight."

"Hah! Wishful thinking, Doc. Apparently, he and Mason are going on a mission in Angola within the next year or so. Let him enjoy what's left of sweet freedom, good beer, and the sound of Eric Clapton's _Layla_. Might be his last for a long while."

"Fair enough."

Glasses clinking against each other, swallowed up by uproaring laughter across the bar, a group of half-wit college kids savoring their own break before the suffocating pressure of exams and graduation in the upcoming weeks. An unfamiliar feeling to him, having gone straight into the Army after high school. Saved himself decades' worth of headaches and an inevitable loan to pay back until it wore his bones down into powder.

Soon enough, it becomes difficult to breathe, a small bar intaking large amounts of patrons, quickly overwhelming him. A glass slamming down onto a nearby table **(needle shattering across the floor, a result of her seizures),** obnoxious whoops and hollers of the younger patrons **(her harrowing scream, hand crushed under his boot)—** _he needs some fresh air before he ends up killing someone._

"I'll be right back," he mutters to Sims, not waiting another second as his chest starts to cave in, heart seizing up in a scorching inferno, cutting through anybody in his path while making way for the door.

Stepping outside into frigid, biting cold thrusts his senses into overdrive, unable to discern snow from ash, red from the streetlights—a mocking mimicry of a bullet wound, glaring, _resonating—this has never happened before... so why is it happening now?_

Now, when he's supposed to be forgetting about the mistakes he's made? Supposed to make peace with the choices that have led him to this bar, to this _ridiculous_ day of celebration, having lost all meaning a long time ago.

"Get it together," he seethes, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette, "it's just one fucking bar—"

_"—Motherfucker!"_

It hasn't even been **five** minutes, and that's all it took for Woods to strike up a fist-fight with one of the college kids. Swinging the door open just as Woods' fist strikes the kid straight in the jaw, knocking him out of the barstool, bottles shattering across the floor ( _decimating_ his senses as it all starts coming back, every memory of _**her,**_ of Vietnam, of _**everything**_ ), Mason and Sims immediately struggling to tear the two apart before it gets uglier.

Mason takes an elbow to the face from the kid, while Sims is knocked back into the bar. That's when he realizes he has to intervene, reaching for Woods' jacket and hauling him back, while the other college kids attempt to hold back their friend—sporting a nasty black eye and a broken nose.

"Enough, Woods!" His words fall on deaf ears, and the kid _hauls_ himself back, preparing for a mean swing.

It doesn't reach his intended target—aviators crack under the force of impact, eye immediately swelling up as the kid's ring digs into his skin, tearing it just so. He didn't mean to step forward like that, impulsively. The force of it knocks him back some, until his own fist hauls a meaner swing, utterly devastating the kid's face in one hit.

He's on the ground in an instant, his little college friends swarming around him to make sure he's still breathing. Not that he cares anymore.

Bloody spittle flying from Adler's mouth, hitting the kid's forehead. "Fucking nuisance," he snarls, vertigo snapping his vision in half, fluorescent lights flickering and swaying above him as dark spots begin blotching his peripheral vision—a fucked-up caricature of Rorschach inkblots. Sims reaching across for him, hauling ass outside of the bar and making way towards the parking lot, against the wishes of Woods (still amped up and ready for round two, it seems), struggling against Mason's hold on him.

"Hudson's gonna have our heads for this," Mason says. "Christ, so much for a night out."

"I second that," Sims replies, keys to his car clinking incessantly in his grasp. "If any of you idiots want a ride, be my guest and go find another one. I've had enough of Christmas theatrics to last another decade. Lazar's probably rolling over in his grave, as we speak."

"Nah," Woods speaks up, bloodied grin stretching across his face. "He'd be living for this shit." Taking it upon himself to have at the passenger seat, leaving Adler with Mason and Sims—the latter taking immediate notice of something on his face, judging by that look he's giving him.

"Doc, you're bleeding a lot."

_Is he?_

Brushing bloody fingers across his cheek, wincing at the mere impression of his fingertips, searing pain stinging across his cheekbones and lower jaw. His ears are pounding with indignant white noise, bells irritating his senses tenfold. No, his cheek isn't bleeding—his _nose_ , however, is a much different story. A gash across the bridge of it, bringing forth a small stream of blood, rolling down the curve of his chin as it imprints itself into the icy sleet beneath his feet.

"Yeah, that eye's bruising like a son of a bitch," Sims laments, cursing lowly. "Come with us, I've got something in the car for your nose."

"No." Voice firm and steadfast in his refusal, looking towards the street with a blank, far-off stare. "I drove here. I'll take care of it, Sims. Don't bother over me."

Recognizing that same, snark-riddled smirk on Sims' face, yet chooses to keep his two-bit from Adler. "Whatever you say, Doc. Do me a favor, though."

"No promises."

"Don't call that analyst when you get home. I mean it—you need a good night's rest if we're gonna end up dealing with Hudson first thing."

"Fine," he says, biting back a laugh, "I wasn't planning on it, but appreciate the input."

Ground rattles beneath his feet, the engine of Sims' Buick LeSabre thrumming as it speeds off towards the road, making the drive back towards Langley. Although his Bonneville is a few spots down, Adler isn't as predisposed to leave so soon, indulging in one last smoke before he even thinks about going home. Leaning against a nearby wall, the amber-saturated cherry of his cigarette glimmering in the night, a subtle juxtapose to the orange streetlights illuminating the road.

Snow begins to fall, a merle of blackbirds swarming across the night sky, southward-bound. A strange and peculiar sight, indeed.

By now, half of the bar—half being the college kids from before—is long gone, but he saves himself the grief of returning inside, despite the biting chill.

His head burns and aches, his vision filmy and fugue-like. He'll have a word with his doctor when it becomes convenient (or when he ends up in a hospital bed, Hudson complaining of his workaholic attitude nearly killing him, no doubt), see if he's possibly concussed. Kid hits hard and good, he'll give the little shit that—but he's sure he hit even harder. Eye's not as swollen as earlier, bruised at the most. Black eyes aren't a rare thing in his line of work, anyways.

Reaching into his pocket for a spare napkin he managed to snag from the barkeep on their way out—wiping away remaining blood remnants, tossing it into a nearby bin.

Gently pushing himself away from the wall, ready to crush his smoke under his boot, forget everything about this awful Christmas Eve (maybe call that analyst—what Sims doesn't know won't kill him)... until his vision clears just a fraction, revealing something within his peripheral vision, immediately catching his eye(s), wary of passersby.

A silhouette—shorter than him, with a head of black hair, neatly braided down the column of her spine—leaving the bar, fixing the lapel of her _noticeably expensive_ jacket, a long black overcoat reaching her knees. Under this light, he doesn't know her face, but something strikes a very familiar ode within his memory. Her head turns in his general direction, footsteps coming to a sudden halt, along with a rattling gasp bridging the divide between the two of them, forces him to notice.

_"Adler?"_

And with his growing curiosity, an unnamed force, a whirlwind providence with an iron fist, opens up a door, upon which lies the point of no return. His vision clears, and with imminent clarity comes _recognition,_ shock settling into his sinews, tendons. Time comes to a steady pause, too close for comfort, heart violently lurching within its cage at the mere sight of **_her._**

**_Her._ **

Overcast of amber streetlights are an injustice to _beautiful_ , harrowing sepia eyes, staring at him with such incredulous terror that guilt immediately swells within the space between his heart and lungs, suffocating him under the pressure. Cigarette hanging so loosely between his lips, only to fall within moments, sinking into snowy cement. Cracked aviators resting in his pocket, leaving him bare, vulnerable to her piercing gaze. She dyed her hair, too.

"Bell," he rasps, immediately clearing his throat. "I—Shit, it's good to see you, kid."

Unadulterated terror disintegrates upon noticing his beaten-up face, black eye swelling, _throbbing_ with achy pain—almost has her rushing to his side, catching herself just as she makes the first step. Her voice sounds... better. Cleaner, yet still retains that Joplin-Nicks undertone. It's almost enough to overwhelm the utter guilt festering within.

"Are you ok?" She dares to ask, cursing under her breath. "I-I, forget I asked."

"This?" Motioning to his black eye, shaking his head. "Ran into another utility pole. Nothing unusual."

Something of an inside joke, when she first asked about his scars nearly... what? Over two years ago? He told her—verbatim—about the utility pole. It's not the truth, but he doesn't pride himself on being an honest man. Evidently, it's an inside joke which falls short, forcing an unwanted laugh from her.

Shit, it _really_ _is_ good to see her. Not so much of a kid anymore (never really was); older, quieter, but that could just be due to his presence (which stings to consider, but is the only possibility that comes to mind). Her eyes are weary, carrying a different kind of exhaustion he's intimately familiar with—it kept him up at night after Vietnam, awoke his ex-wife with a fright on several occasions, even some colleagues he'd be working with while on long-term missions.

Despite such weariness, her smile doesn't falter, polite and astute, just as he remembers her.

"You look great, kid," he says, taking the initiative to step closer—which she doesn't reject, _not yet,_ just studies him as her smile falters just slightly. Wary of his intentions, he's sure. Drawing _so impossibly close,_ until he presses a simple, gentle kiss to her cheek—common courtesy, to which she cranes her cheek just so, eyes gazing downward as he pulls away (stifling the scarlet fluster in her cheeks, which clearly doesn't work as well as she hoped), until a glimmer across her left hand catches his eye.

Her left hand—perfectly healed, scar tissue neatly composing across her skin, a constellation of pain having faded into a footnote—twitches as he lifts it into the visible light, her smile noticeably fading as it becomes appallingly clear what is on her finger.

An elegant, stunning _engagement ring_ _;_ a small oval diamond, laden within a golden band. Simplistic, beautiful—a ring which perfectly befits her.

Making eye-contact, seeing her expression falter, digesting his reaction—a tilt of his head, smile ghosting his lips.

"Bell, I—"

"—Bella?"

Both looking towards the source of the voice, a man walking out of the bar (taking immediate note of how Adler's hand suddenly drops to his side, digging into his pockets for something to center himself to, fully comprehend the situation occurring), going straight to Bell's side. Her face alight with warmth and _affection_ , leaning into the man as he presses a kiss to her temple. "Sorry for keeping you waiting," he says (more to her, really), "but I see you weren't alone."

"Just ran into an old friend," she replies, motioning towards him. "Russell Adler, Ethan Crain—my fiancé."

Her fiancé is something straight out of Hollywood, a living embodiment of Don Johnson, shaking his hand with a firmness that matches his own—a pre-emptive measure to establish distance between the three of them, has Adler taking a step back.

"Adler's my old handler," she aptly explains, providing enough elaboration to her husband-to-be. "We just... ran into each other."

_He calls her Bella._

It's not just a derivative of her name, no. She and Adler both know what her name is—so _Bella_ is personal, a choice which she's unopposed to judging by the warm smile gracing her _beautiful_ face, as her nickname would suggest. Gives her something other than what the CIA had forced upon her... a warm welcome opposed to her reaction when Adler called her by the name she had been given—grants her the power of _agency,_ having cut what remains of her old ties.

_Bella..._

"Pleasure to meet you," her fiancé says, clipped and direct. "Well, we should get going. Merry Christmas, Mr. Adler."

"Likewise," he immediately responds, processing how truly _ironic_ his circumstances are—his ex-wife announcing her engagement, only to meet the last person he'd ever expect to _also_ be engaged. Astronomical chances, until they aren't. "Kid," he calls out, momentarily pausing the outgoing couple, meeting her beautiful eyes (further re-instating a painstaking, gut-wrenching feeling of _**guilt**_ ), most likely for the last time.

"I'll meet you at the car," she quietly tells her (quite reluctant) fiancé, walking off with a final, pointed glance in Adler's direction—not that he blames the man for his caution.

Meeting in the middle, at a standpoint amidst soft snowfall, something out of a rom-com, if you ask him. Only the ridiculous dialogue and shitty soundtrack aren't here: it's just her... and him. Two war-worn soldiers, struggling to find peace amongst the mental chaos that comes with unrequited reunions like this. There's... **_so much_**. So much he wants to say (hell, he feels he _has_ to say), wanting to congratulate her, tell her how proud he is that she's made a good life with what she had...

... Wanting to tell her _so much more_ than that _,_ finding himself truly incapable of doing it here, in stupid cold weather and snow crinkling in her hair.

"Are you happy, kid?"

A tentative pause, contemplating possibilities that would speak finality, tell him everything he doesn't deserve to know. He doesn't deserve to know how happy she is, not when he's destroyed every foundation, every withstanding pillar tying her to her former life, leaving her with _ashes_ to start anew with. And now that her foundations have been rebuilt, and she's happier than words could ever entail (even without having to say it; he already knows), he doesn't get the right to know.

Except, her eyes seem to sparkle... an act itself which speaks pithy, sparkle fading into the recesses of sepia-saturated eyes—mulling over the correct choice of words in what should've been an instantaneous response.

Reminds him of marriage counseling with his ex-wife; the hesitance, the uncertainty. He doesn't like the implications of that.

"Yes," she finally replies, smile gracing her face once again, nodding fervently. "I am."

"Good. I'm not asking for forgiveness here—it's not something I will ever deserve from you—but I'm happy for you. That _you_ are happy."

Unlike her smile from moments prior (speaking volumes of a honeyed, practiced effort), this one reaches her eyes, meaningful and true. "Merry Christmas, Adler," she says, leaning up to press a gentle, cordial kiss to his cheek—his scarred one—before walking down towards the parking lot to meet her fiancé.

Everything feels... answered. Like their chance encounter proved to settle their differences, bury a long-forgotten hatchet in the two years it's been left unsaid. Despite the immeasurable closure from this entire situation, something untold... yet _appallingly_ clear to him... reveals itself.

A door, left to wither away in the recesses of his memory, suddenly re-invigorated by that tiny act of kindness, a _kiss_ which made him feel like he was twenty-three again, ready to share his life with someone else...

A chapter previously fulfilled, only for another one to open old wounds, give him an idea wholly undeserving of being entertained, in the slightest.

Those three little words, three weeks post-Solovetsky as he watched her recite Plath, fractured hand turning dog-eared pages with such care, injuries notwithstanding.

A burning, all-consuming realization that he'll never confess to her, now that she's walked out of his life once again.

* * *

**Langley, Virginia - midnight**

_First thing he does upon arriving home—calls that analyst._

Her voice, gnawing and biting like an affection-starved dog, grinding his last resolve into ash. Still, he perseveres, and when she arrives they share a bottle of Scotch together, ignoring her absurd quips about his life, about his work as a clandestine officer and everything in-between. He didn't call her for good conversation.

It takes her a moment to understand that, and by that time, he's already backing her up against a wall, hand against her mouth (something she finds _alluring_ , when in actuality, is his quick way of silencing her slurring, distorted voice), hips grinding against his with great determination. Even as she moans vague words of appreciation, of incessant desire for _more_ , he's not focusing on her. Making this as easy as possible, considering how banal it is, at its core.

His thoughts swallow up his concentration, if only briefly, and when he looks down at the bare ass smacking against his hips, he can't help but imagine _**her**_ , immediately silencing such thoughts out of high regard for the woman in question, soon to be a married woman, the _wife_ of another man.

Despite his efforts, it's not fast enough. Pressing impossibly deep, skin-against-skin with a stifled grunt, ignoring analyst Stephanie's moans echoing against the room.

Although a selfish man, he isn't an ignorant one. At least having the common courtesy to bring her to completion, as well, regardless of the post-sex clarity it brings him, realizing his mistake as soon as she settles against him, pressing wiry fingers into his chest.

"That was fun," she comments, half an hour later, getting dressed with shaky hands and alcohol-tinted laughter. "Call me again sometime."

"Sure," came his impassive, detached response, cigarette between his lips. Stephanie makes herself scarce, not before blowing a lipstick-smudged kiss in his general direction.

_So much for listening to Sims._

Subtle, jarring tapping (a juxtaposition, in of itself) against his window, looking towards it to see a blackbird, amber beak tapping infrequently against the glass. Smoke billows between his lips, inhaling back through his nose; a sharp intake of air is difficult when there's something between your teeth. A haunting reminder of earlier tonight, bringing himself back into the depths of memory, remembering soft black hair, an airy scent of lilacs clinging to her clothes... a kind smile he didn't deserve to experience.

Her beautiful ring adorning her left hand. Bearing scars he never should've given her.

Spending the early hours of Christmas Day in darkness and isolation, nursing an awful hangover, a likely concussion, and a depressing black eye.

Wondering if he's lost the last good thing in his life _—_ for good, this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oop PLOT TWIST i am so sorry
> 
> ok i won't lie, writing this had me in my feels, even on a 2am writing binge. look, i intend to make good on my promises... but it's gotta get worse before it gets better and i am so sorry for keeping you guys hanging, but stay with me and it'll happen eventually :)
> 
> i'm still stuck on my other wip, but soon enough i'll get my shit together and deliver something good :)


	3. with those who favor fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> February 1984.
> 
> It's been several months since Bell and Adler's reunion. Amidst tumultuous wedding planning, new complications arises in the wake of a new year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, i'm not exactly introducing new characters here... just re-introducing old ones from older stories XD also just to clarify, i'm weird with names and how to pronounce them, so forgive me if it becomes annoying lmao
> 
> michal's name is pronounced 'mikale', which differs from mik-jal (silent j). i'm taking liberties here ok lol
> 
> enjoy this sprinkle of angst, from me to you

_**some say the world will end in fire** _

_**some say in ice;** _ _**from what i've tasted of desire** _

_**i hold with those who favor fire**_

_**-** _ **Robert Frost, "Fire and Ice". -**

* * *

**Richmond, Virginia - February 17th, 1984.**

_Wedding invitations... wedding vows... wedding dress._

Three crucial components, which hold the power to make or break a wedding—perhaps a prospective marriage, as well. None of which she is _remotely_ close to appointing and her wedding is in _three_ months. _Ninety_ days. Over six months' worth of planning, and it so happens that such poignant items are inaccessible, consistently at a distance.

Although she's far from alone in such conjectures—her future husband's spending his day at a tailor, working out the final details of his suit, figuring out his vows—there's something about a bride-to-be, utterly _indecisive_ over such important components of _her_ wedding.

Commonplace amongst brides, yet the overwhelming unease and anxiety lingers as the date approaches.

Reasonably speaking, the start of 1984 has already proved itself tumultuous—from Ethan's troubles in arranging his family's arrival to the United States in time for the wedding (citizenship issues, as he informs), their issues with moving in together (Ethan's landlord is unwilling to part with his contract until the lease is due, or if Ethan provides substantial payments until said expiration date). Her only wedding invitations were sent to two people—Ethan's already made headway in that department.

 _Nothing_ is going accordingly, and it's infuriating.

It's affecting her work ethic, something her boss has taken considerable note of, important promotion aside—another contributing factor in her anxiety.

A pair of hands press into her shoulders, red-polished nails against her collarbones, a soothing action that has her tilting her head back, into a firm stomach.

"It's hopeless," she murmurs, eyes closing against the intense lights of their shared office, "I'm going to lose more than my sanity if I don't figure out how to plan a goddamn wedding, much less my own."

"Well, that's what your maid of honor's for," Stephanie replies—her partner on their revolutionary computer program, the fruits of nearly two years' worth of labor, night classes at the University of Virginia. "Michal's arranged another appointment at some local bridal shop—while I'm focusing on surviving another week of teaching code to our _bright-minded_ new interns, courtesy of our _considerate_ boss."

Grimaces at the mere mention of the man in-question; hotshot trust-fund brat at day, Wall Street trader at night.

Their boss, who couldn't tell you basic sequences of arithmetic, much less _create_ a computer program, which in turn has proved useful to the department's meticulous tracking of Soviet networks, having since employed the usage of Egyptian numerics, Cyrillic scripts, amongst others... all contained within a specific algorithm, having stumped the department for _months—_ a commonality shared with their sister network within Langley.

If she and Stephanie hadn't taken a crack at the system, it'd be a lost cause—and now they're the analytics department's latest passion project (guinea pigs).

_Oh, she doesn't blame Stephanie for her daily indulgence of spirits—she'd probably do the same when dealing with interns all day._

"Enough about me, Steph—how are you? Langley give you a permanent position, yet?"

"Of course not," her partner huffs, taking a seat at her desk (a favor she asked of Hudson before the start of tenure, keeping the best of the best together). "It's worse when you directly report to the same guy who'll ring you up in the dead of night, just for a piece of ass—sex in itself's a rarity, with how busy he's been."

 _I can greatly empathize_ , is what she wishes to say. God knows she and Ethan are quite preoccupied, as of late. Moments are scarce.

Although Stephanie keeps mum of her romantic escapades, a little support and love go a long way, especially for her closest friend—Michal aside, of course. And despite Steph's latest beau remaining a mystery, she's got no doubt Steph'll reveal him when she's good and ready to.

"I say give it time—eventually, he'll smarten up, come up with a _romantic_ wine and dine... realize how much of a catch you are and put a ring on you."

"Always the optimist, hm? My sad love life aside... your wedded woes are _top priority_ —any hopeful additions to your guest list?"

_Oh, she's got several._

Reaches into her drawer, pulling out her latest wedding invitation template—attached to it, a small note, names haphazardly scrawled in distinctive handwriting, allowing Stephanie to skim through the brief list.

Aside from the obvious choices (Michal, her maid of honor; Stephanie, her bridesmaid), two names are present on her list: Dimitri Belikov and Mrs. Bowman, her elderly neighbor (and occasional babysitter for her beloved cat, Anya). Mason and Woods' invitations are en-route, have been since the prior weekend (response pending, but surely incoming)—her only regret is the forlorn absence of Lazar Azoulay's name on her list.

_Ignoring the pang of indecipherable emotions when she thinks of another name absent on her list—wondering if it's a good thing, or not._

"Plus-ones are an inclusion, right?" Stephanie asks.

"It's a courthouse wedding, Steph—there's no point in inviting plus-ones."

"Fair enough," she laughs, pulling out her flask from her pocket (the first sip of whiskey since arriving, she notes). "How about your vows? Going Catholic or lapsing?"

"You know the answer to that," Bell replies, taking initiative in opening up a window, allowing smoke to clear out from the enclosed space. "Ethan and I love Lord Byron's poems—we're considering one for our vows. I'll bring my novel to the bridal shop appointment, consider it your form of entertainment."

Stephanie's expression speaks mischief, cherry lipstick juxtaposes with the blue of her blouse, complementing her business-casual wardrobe choices. Of course, when mischief and Stephanie go hand-in-hand, there's a catch, an allegorical fly in the ointment. Her expression falters just so, reveals an iota of concern (having done a wonderful job of stifling it, until her first sip of whiskey, no doubt).

"Go on—tell me what you wanna tell me," Bell says, beating her to it.

"Nothing. You seem like you've got ideas, run with them. I've gotta get back to Langley, boss man wants the interns to get the full _CIA-approved experience_ , hand-delivered by yours truly." Returning the invitation and list, primping up her appearance in efforts to avoid suspicion, keep the odor of alcohol off her breath with a mint (conveniently a brand of spearmint only Bell buys; coincides with the latest disappearance of said pack).

"That's not what you wanna say," Bell laughs, shaking her head, which Stephanie chooses to ignore.

"I'll see you at the bridal shop," she sing-songs on her way out.

Her shift's lasting another four hours, give Michal a break from MoH duties until she clocks out, going wherever this bridal shop happens to be (if it's anywhere near Norfolk, it'll be an immediate, _hard no_ —hell, anything beyond a driving limit of twenty minutes falls under the negative category), an appointment which will undoubtedly last for _hours_ , knowing how fastidious Stephanie and Michal are, expecting nothing but perfection for the bride-to-be.

It's funny, really—how fast life has gone and past since her departure from her old unit, accumulating into an engagement and her own branch of cybersecurity within a CIA subsidiary, far from prying eyes who seek to utilize her as a weapon, a pliant soldier until she isn't.

Two years ago, she was homeless, unemployed and in _dire need_ of speech therapy, reconstructive surgery on her hand running its temperamental healing course.

Walking away was the best fucking decision she ever made—her first act of agency, so sacred not even the CIA could taint it with its manipulative iron fist. Even if she'll never regain a sense of familiarity and nostalgia that comes with returning home... this is the next best thing. With Ethan.

Engagement ring shimmers in amber light, an incomparable beauty to behold—keeps the uncertainty, the doubt at bay—for now.

"Bridal shop," she mutters, breathless laugh following suit, head pressing gently against the headrest of her chair.

* * *

**Norfolk, Virginia - 4:30 pm**

_Norfolk is exactly the place she doesn't want to be—yet she's here, all the same._

Michal neglected to mention that key piece of information until well after they left Richmond, weaving through rush hour traffic, electric pulsates vibrating the car as Joan Jett's _Album_ nears its end—a personal favorite of Michal's, to the chagrin of her reluctant passengers.

"Sorry I find Journey and Billy Squier inferior to the Queen of Rock," Michal laughs, ashing her smoke under her heel, three of them making way towards the bridal shop.

"Controversial opinion, Ms. Bennett," Stephanie remarks—as sober as a nun, if only for her dearest friend, the _blushing_ bride-to-be.

A quaint little place. Elegance and lace and chiffons... it's whiplash to the senses, a staggering amount of white-laced dresses. _Expensive_ is the right word for it—which she hopes isn't the case, considering their previous discussion about unnecessary indulgences and keeping to a proper budget. After all, it's not an elaborate wedding (nobody holds such things at a courthouse wedding; it's meant to be simple, her epitome of perfection).

Opulence is far from her ideals of what warrants the perfect wedding dress.

Their first steps are met with warm smiles, glasses of champagne (narrowly removing it from their designated driver, who utters a disappointed sigh), and a momentary wait-time as the attendants search for their scheduled appointment within their files—a custom quickly being lost to the old ways, makes way for the advent of modern technology (or so the media claims; she's never been a Reader's Digest type).

"Bennett, Hoffman and Crain?" The attendant asks, which invokes an eye-roll from the bride as she turns towards her maid of honor—pearly white smile speaking mischief and nonchalance, all at once.

"I'm not Mrs. Crain yet," Bell says, taking a cordial sip of her champagne.

" _Yet,_ being the keyword here. Well, go on, make your picks, I'll make sure Steph doesn't drain their champagne surplus before we've even seen a dress."

_At this rate, it's more than likely._

"Good idea," she laughs, going with the attendant down _rows and rows_ of neverending dresses, through silken fabrics, lacy embellishments, sweetheart necklines... utterly _s_ _tumped_ in terms of where to even begin. Offering vague ideas, shooting down a plethora of ideas the attendant offers, albeit sheepishly—truly the epitome of a blushing bride-to-be, and a clueless one, to boot.

_Satin's okay... no lace, god no. Sleeves. It's a courthouse wedding, actually. No, we just don't like big weddings. Plunging neckline...?_

Compromises have to start somewhere, don't they?

After agreeing to a sleek, off the shoulder dress, she's preoccupying herself with pulling the material taut across tattooed skin (something the attendant made coy glances at, earning the gripping scowl and vexation of one Michal Bennett), examining the final product within the change room and... honestly, there's something beautiful about how... seamless it feels across her skin, how _right_ it feels to stand in the mirror, about to marry a good, honest man, who loves her... accepts her as she is.

Flaws, tattoos, Soviet Russia... Ethan sees past it all. Sees someone worth living for, to devote himself to for the rest of his life, start a _family_ with—

Two small knocks bring her into reality, calling out with minimal volume, "yes?"

"It's me, honey." _Michal, her knight in red heels and a le_ _ather jacket_. "You've been in there a while—do you need help?"

"Yeah. Sure, just—one sec."

Shaky fingers unlock the latch, allowing Michal ample space to squeeze through, and upon setting eyes on her, in her white-dressed, (no doubt visually stunning) visage, lets out a brief wolf-whistle at the sight—never fails in flustering her, two years after the first time in their apartment hallway. Bell bent down after dropping her keys, trademark whistle startling her on the spot—the story of how she became best friends with her neighbor.

"Gorgeous, honey," Michal compliments, "it's just a little loose in the back, though—I can fix it if you like?"

Nodding, immediately turning around to allow Michal to work her magic touch, double-lacing the loose knot at the base of her spine, the only thing preserving her from a bad wardrobe malfunction (not the sort of dress suitable for windy, icy weather).

"Steph found a few dresses that you might like. If this isn't the one, we can take a look at them."

"That's not why you came in, isn't it?"

Fingers still at the last knot, albeit momentarily. Letting out a sigh, Michal gently turns her to make eye-contact, and when she sighs like that, it's never a good sign, solidified by her expression—concern, _great_ concern.

"Steph told me about your ideas for the wedding," she starts, an air of uneasiness about her, "Lord Byron poems, courthouse wedding, red-gold invitations, a guest list—you've got so many amazing ideas, but..."

"That's never a good thing when you say _'but'_."

" _But_ it feels like you're holding back, Bella. All these amazing dreams you have for your big day, and you're casting doubt on them, especially after Christmas Eve."

_Christmas Eve. A night out on the town, only to run into old memories, with eyes so blue and immersive, bruise across his face as he whispered her name._

**_Bell, I—Shit, it's good to see you kid._ **

"Christmas Eve," she whispers, shaking her head. "I-I, nothing happened that night, Michal—I promise you."

"Honey... look at me, Bella. You know that you can tell me anything, if something happened with you and Ethan—"

Eyes going wide with shock, instantly jumping to her fiancé's defense, genuinely, _honestly_ hoping that Michal isn't assuming the worst of him.

"—Oh, no! God, no, nothing like that," she musters, the words she wants to say escaping her memory, hanging off the tip of her stuttering tongue. "Ethan's been _amazing_ , M. Even with my ridiculous delays, he's been nothing but supportive and patient with me."

"I know he has, believe me. I just... I want you to understand—there's no obligation for you to go through with this if it's not what you want."

"You think I don't want him?" Voice cracks at the seams, faltering at the idea of her best friend's disapproval, having gone unsaid just _months_ before her wedding.

"I think you're rushing things for his sake, honey. And I just—I, _fuck_ , I don't want you going through with something you aren't _one-hundred and ten percent_ certain of, no matter how long you've been with him, or how big the rock on your finger is. I know you love him, and he loves you—but as the world's leading expert on rushing into uncertain marriage: don't do it because you feel obligated to. You can always walk away, and there's no harm in that. It'll save you so much grief and heartache, Bella."

_... Oh, god._

Michal never speaks of her marriage—her first act of rebellion against her Jewish roots, wanting to prove herself more than a little girl with big dreams, to prove _to_ _herself_ that love is within her horizons, a powerful tangibility come to fruition... if only her ex-husband wasn't a greedy fucking monster, destroyed everything in her that was good and pure; a sustaining hope for true love crushed into ash.

Not unlike her best friend, having to start anew with said ashes, only to rebuild a life, far greater than one could ever imagine (undermining the low expectations of those who hurt them, in the process)—regaining a passionate love for art (undoubtedly her greatest love), managing her own art studio in Charlottesville.

So this... this is _incredibly, severely personal_ if she's sharing such intimate thoughts.

All so she knows she isn't alone in the constant, unsettling doubt that rattles her awake at night, staring at the planes and ridges of her fiancé's back, wondering how the hell she can love someone so wholeheartedly, yet keep such _poignant_ details hidden in the dark, where her nightmares rest between her sinews, against her beating heart.

"How will I know," whispering into the space between them, butterflies swarming about, rising into her throat with tight constriction, "if it's a mistake? If it's not what I'm supposed to do?"

"If it isn't right... you'll know it," Michal affirms, a solemn, forthright statement that breaks her heart just so. "It won't be overnight, but it's not subtle either—it'll hit you where it hurts, knock the wind out of you and break your heart in one fell swoop; it's an unmistakable feeling, honey—one I hope you'll never experience."

_I'll be by your side, even if you do._

"If it does, though, I'll say this—it takes a special kind of person to invoke that reckoning. I oughta know," Michal finishes, soft smile playing at her lips, no doubt in loving recollection of one person—Eliza, a colleague from her time at UoV, co-owner of their art studio... her _partner_ of five years. "Don't bother fighting it: believe me, I tried, for a long time. That sort of thing is an unstoppable force, can't be reasoned against. Don't break your heart trying to."

_Do what's right for you._

It's all... all so much. Overwhelmingly bittersweet, wells up immeasurable emotions in her chest.

Surging forward, into an inescapable embrace with one of her greatest reasons to exist, the one she can confide in, cry together with, get drunk at two-am with on cheap boxed wine—unbearably relieved when she eagerly reciprocates (has her vision blurring with happy-sad tears). "Thank you, M," she whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek.

"I'll see you outside, honey. Take all the time you need."

Not that it's necessary, but the gesture is kind, as kind as the smile on Michal's face—genuine, loving, true, and blackbirds excitedly swirl in her heart at the sight. Lacey off-the-shoulders aren't within her definition of perfection, anyways.

Stephanie comes around the corner, bright beaming smile on her face, hands full with a glass of Chardonnay and the (third) dress of the evening.

"Found your number one," she sing-songs, finishing off her glass, "I've practically gone through this entire salon for a stunner like this—god, I hope you love it."

"Anything you pick is good," she laughs, wandering back towards the change rooms.

Getting a better glimpse of this... holy shit, absolutely gorgeous and perfect dress. It... even without trying it on, already knowing it'll check off every box, hit every last iota of mental criteria.

Sleek, smooth fabric. No patterns (another bonus, in her book), long-sleeves,v-neckline, a subtle keyhole back—shows off the continuation of her bicep sleeve, just so, another confidence booster—all seamlessly come together in an alluring, picturesque visage as she fixes the crinkles and odd spots to ensure its taut fit across her body.

Loose strands of black hair falling from her unsecured updo, complementing the _rightness_ of it all, and that's when she knows she's found the one.

If her teary-eyed, beaming smile isn't a clear indication to her bridal party, what is?

"Bella, you look amazing," Stephanie says, jaw agape in utter awe.

Michal's just... _smiling_. Pride, love and adoration all that she sees. "Is that the one, honey?"

And her answer is instantaneous; all-knowing smile gets even brighter. "Yes."

* * *

**two hours later**

_Home sweet home._

Adorable sights greet her upon (long-overdue, borderline exhaustion) arrival, keys set gently in the glass bowl next to the door, preserve this image in her mind forever—her two favorite people: Anya and Ethan, sleeping together on the sofa, with _the Jetsons'_ latest season on-repeat. Michal offered to keep her dress at her place, a sound idea to avoid an accidental mishap with Anya, or God forbid Ethan happens upon it.

Pressing into Ethan's side, an action that awakes both cat and fiancé—although Anya's response is quicker, alert as she takes off down the hallway. Ethan comes to as slowly as he goes to sleep.

"Hi, Bella," he whispers, pressing chaste kisses against her cheek, her jaw. "Where've you been off to?"

"Wedding stuff," she coyly remarks, threading careful fingers in his brown hair, "y'know, the things I should've done a month ago."

"Least you did them. Tailor needs another two weeks of work on my suit—needless to say, my day's been quite uneventful."

_Awful, horrific shame._

Her fingers—previously running through his soft hair—traveling lower, past the column of his throat, fiddling at the buttons of his shirt, an action that instantly erases any remnants of exhaustion from him, understanding her silly little games. Tightens his grip on her hip, teeth worries at his bottom lip.

Oh, it's been a _long, excruciating_ three weeks—retribution is a given, now that they're on the same page.

"Here's to uneventful days," she whispers, "what do you say to that, hm?"

"I say... fuck them," he growls, hands roaming across her ass.

Surging forward, capturing her in a searing, passionate kiss, eagerly reciprocates tenfold. Making the most of their night, clothes strewn haphazardly across the room, raspy moans and piercing cries of utter rapture echo against the walls of the living room, harsh, brutal thrusts bringing hazy ecstasy with each euphoric surge, brings her closer to inevitable death, piercing sharp nirvana within... ** _oh, fuck_** , it's been too long.

Nails digging into pliant corduroy, meeting each demanding thrust as within her capabilities. His hands, everywhere and yet nowhere, all at once.

She doesn't mean to, but when she closes her eyes... imagination wandering about the recesses of her mind... oh, she _shouldn't_ , but she thinks of **him**. Imagines **his** hands on her skin, smacking her ass, touching her clit with practiced, deft efforts ( _stop it, you'll ruin everything!_ ), presses tender kisses into her hair, against her temples. His cock, his lips, his haunting, harrowing and perfect eyes—

**—Imagines that _he_ is the one loving her, within this very moment.**

Heady thrusts reach a crescendo, hurtling her and her husband-to-be over the edge together, although his heart is safely within her chest.

Hers is adrift, aimlessly wandering in search for its new home—even when his chest speaks absolute safety, it cries out vehement rejection, wishing for _more_ , _so much more_ than what Ethan's can offer—seeking purchase and forever solace in another man's sternum, seeks to be imprinted in his soul.

With post-sex bliss, comes stone-cold, biting reality. Rains fire and brimstone unto her soul, deathly gravitas rattling her bones.

Ethan holds her with irrevocable love, such everlasting adoration (of which she wholly believes herself unworthy of, beyond rhyme or reason, especially after such _awful, uncertain_ thoughts), words bouncing across her amygdala, Michal's exact words in the bridal salon ringing loud and true, unbearably so, breaks her heart all over again.

_It'll hit you where it hurts, knock the wind out of you and break your heart in one fell swoop; an unmistakable feeling._

Is this what it feels like?

Suffocating, embracing, all at once? Heartbreaking, comforting, swathing her heart in unbearable pliancy?

With a lasting, devastating glance at Ethan—a good, honest man, sharing her bed with heartfelt expectations of a shared forever—realizing that she loves him, and he loves her.

_But there is a very distinct, devastating difference between loving and in love. And her heart isn't in the right place to properly love him, as he deserves._

Not when her heart yearns to fall in love with another—the one on her mind ever since she kissed his cheek that fateful Christmas Eve.

* * *

**5:55 am**

Hudson calls at dawn. Tells her to pack up her office, relocate to Langley within the hour.

 _"You're back on the team, kid,"_ he says over the phone, _"can't seem to be rid of you, after all."_

After he hangs up, she throws the damn phone across the room, shattering a nearby mirror.

"Fuck," she wails, heart-wrenching sobs escaping her chest, falling to her knees amidst early morning blue skies, cursing Fate and its vindictive hold on her soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ew, i broke my own heart writing this. i had a bloodwork appt today, so i can't complain XD
> 
> also, since i'm horrible at describing wedding dresses, i'm gonna post the link to my inspo for bell's wedding dress on my profile, let me know if there's any issues with the link. 
> 
> as always, i hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, and i love hearing from you guys so don't be shy <33


	4. every breath you take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adler has an epiphany, a reckoning nearly three years in the making.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> getting close to the end! the next two chapters are gonna be something else, i tell you. keep an eye out for certain tags needing changing within the next few days ;)
> 
> chapter title is from the brilliant, heartbreaking "the english patient" novel, i just felt like the quote really attributes to what goes on in this chapter, although not as romantic as the novel, that's for sure lmao
> 
> rest assured, everybody's getting a happy ending—i intend to follow through on all my promises, but until then... enjoy a sprinkle of angst, hand-created by yours truly :)

_**the new lovers enter the habits of the other—things are smashed, revealed in a new light;** _

_**this is done with nervous or tender sentences** _

**_although the heart is an organ of fire_ **

**\- Michael Ondaatje, "the English Patient". -**

* * *

**Langley, Virginia - February 18th, 1984 - 6:30 am**

_Another day, another inane visit to the clinic._

As it stands, getting sucker-punched to the brink of vertigo tends to leave more than nasty contusions or a black eye—it didn't occur to him that it'd become an issue until a prior mission, when a grenade went off several feet near him and his vision utterly _collapsed_ , meshing together into an indecipherable haziness, nearly costed his life.

From thereon, Hudson insisted on him receiving proper medical care, at least until his re-designation to the field.

Until then... it's tedious working hours at Langley, having become the primary source of intel on their current hindrance—Stitch, a lasting repercussion of Operation Rebirth, former leading manufacturer of Nova 6... latest contributing factor to the _pounding_ headaches he gets during odd intervals throughout the day.

Oh, he's not alone, though. Sims hasn't been out in the field since Vietnam; a justifiable reason to get out of his office at infrequent times, make small talk on the occasion.

His office door swings open, and there stands said best friend... albeit without his trademark snark-addled smirk.

_Cause for concern?_

"If you're here to tell me something about Hudson, or go on another tangent about our incoming interns, go bother secretary Cora about it," Adler says, eyes not wavering from his extensive research on Stitch—most compiled from the gulag's archives, some of his own experiences; most notably the Berlin safehouse incident, to name a few.

Sims making himself comfortable in a spare chair (ignoring the quiet correction he makes under his breath about the secretary's name as he sits), an action which should _really_ concern him, considering his inclination to stand around, make himself comfortable on other surfaces (anything but a chair, a fact which irritates him so).

Sighing heavily, breaking attention from his _interesting_ reports to look Sims in the eye. "Okay, I'll bite—what's going on?"

"What, _you_ don't know?" Sims is staring at him, incredulously (bordering expectant, even), until realization sets in, scoffing. "Hell, of course, _you_ don't know."

"Suspense is killing me," he dryly remarks.

Office door swings open again, revealing two people who (for all intents and purposes) should not be at Langley this afternoon—as a matter of fact, one of them is supposedly _retired_ , having returned to his son in Alaska following their last night out on Christmas Eve, the other just sticks out like a sore thumb amidst the hustle and bustle within Langley's walls, supposed to be enjoying what remains of _sweet freedom_ , as so aptly coined by Sims.

Mason and Woods, respectively—both carrying identical red-white envelopes, names written in precise penmanship across the epicenters. Woods rips his open with the grace of a baboon on cocaine, pulling out a red card, silver-gold detailings embellishing the corners. More fanciful writing... until he realizes what type of card it is.

"Bell sent you wedding cards," he says, voice hollowing out, chest coming to a sudden _suffocating_ constriction, holding the card between nimble fingers.

"Said wedding takes place three months from now," Mason says, "I didn't believe my son until I saw it myself."

"I got mine while Philly was facin' off against New Jersey," Woods adds. "You didn't get nothin' from her, Adler?"

"Of course I didn't—I don't expect a wedding invitation from my former lab rat, Woods."

_He doesn't mean it, but stings, all the same, get the message across._

Three months is... closer than he presumed. Her name—printed so elegantly, a beautiful homage to a beautiful woman _(stop it)_ who, in truth, deserves a day to herself, deserves to marry a man who looks beyond her past, sees a life with her (wants to _create_ a life together)—build a house, make it a home... start a family. All in three months' time, and while those who genuinely considered her a living, breathing human, with values and hopes and desires like the rest of them... they get to witness it.

It's starting to sink in, just how _imminent_ this event is, that his lonely walk down memory lane on Christmas Eve wasn't a delusion, a figment of his imagination.

He _shouldn't_ be thinking twice about a woman who doesn't care about him, and yet, fate is a fickle thing—if this had genuine purpose aside from giving him _annoying_ migraines, restless nights (constantly fighting off the urge to think about her, especially like _**that**_ , when she's engaged to be married), and a nightly fling with an alcoholic analyst (who's quickly becoming accustomed to the idea of a _non-existent_ relationship; a true cause for concern), it wouldn't be happening... right?

"Let's get several things straight here," voice raising, bordering annoyance as he points accusatory fingers at the men before him. "Mason, you should be retired. Sims, you should be down the hall, irritating that secretary, Cora—"

"—Clara," Sims corrects once again, ignoring the burning glare he receives in kind.

"Doesn't matter. Woods... don't even get me started on _you;_ moreover, all three of you went out of your way to haul ass to Langley in the middle of the day—without Hudson's knowledge, I'm sure—just to tell me something that I already know?"

_**Oh, fuck.** _

Yeah, there are no take-backs on that. Cogs are turning in their gears, doesn't take longer than five seconds for it to sink in, for them to understand what Adler means when he said something _that fucking stupid_ , just to prove a point in a useless, tedious conversation.

Sims is the only one who dares to ask. "You _knew_ she was engaged?"

While there's no chance of revoking his stupid revelation, he has a choice in who deserves to hear the extent of his knowledge. Tossing the invitations back to their respective owners, silently motioning towards the door (a warning in itself, to which they reluctantly heed), leaving him to deal with his best friend's blatant curiosity—not before closing the blinds on the office windows, shielding their conversation from outside viewers—more accurately, Mason and Woods.

_Bunch of gossiping mother hens._

"So." Sims lights a cigarette, leaning back into his chair. "Start talking, Doc. I've got all day."

_He doesn't, but that doesn't matter._

"Christmas Eve, after that bar fight," he starts. "I told you to go on without me, went back towards the bar, and... she was there. With her fiancé—"

"—You're about to lie to my face, I can tell; _I_ _didn't say much_ , _it's not important_ , _stop asking stupid questions_ —well, I'm telling you now that I'm stopping that shit before it even leaves your mouth. What happened?"

"I asked her if she was... happy. I'll admit, I'm the last asshole who deserves to know that answer, but she gave me one, after a few moments."

Sims' expression is undoubtedly the same one Adler had when he saw Bell hesitate—concerned, doesn't like the implications that pause brought, especially after a question which begs into question someone's contentment, their receptiveness to a life with someone else—if you _hesitate,_ mull over which words go well with a honeyed smile, what does that mean when behind closed doors?

"And she said...?"

"She said she was happy. That was enough for me, and I haven't seen her since." _I don't plan on it,_ goes unsaid, a bald-faced lie, immediately rots away on his tongue.

"Doc, in my years of knowing you, in how you handle liars... that... _that_ is a big, fat fucking lie—which I'm surprised you didn't pick up on."

"I knew. I just decided against saying anything."

Sims makes a face, one of disconcertion, disbelief. _"Why?"_

_Oh, he knows why. Just didn't want to, couldn't stomach the thought of it._

"It doesn't matter—she's still getting married, and I'm still here, waiting until some doctor clears me for duty so that I can fight for my country, while also dealing with an alcoholic hook-up looking to get serious. And it so happens that my ex-wife's getting married one fucking week after **her** , so needless to say, there are better ways of occupying my time than this depressing bullshit—"

Sims keeps mum, just... allows him to go off on a tangent (the same thing he accused Sims of the moment he stepped inside his office), saying nothing, even as Adler's fist slams down onto the desk, forces himself to _breathe_ again, realize the gravity of his words as it centers him to the earth, to understand how much of a _liar_ he truly is.

Not that he's ever been an honest man, to begin with. But it's a different kind of lie, a deception that makes it easier to sleep at night (when it really doesn't).

Makes it easier to forget about those three little words... resonating, a forever haunting reminder of **her**. Forget the winter loneliness after nightly hookups, the blackbird at his window (as if _taunting_ him, telling him _exactly_ what he should've done, having no idea of what it meant... until now, that is), forget how his heart tightened at the sight of her engagement ring, the warm smile as her fiancé pressed a gentle kiss to her temple—

— _The fluster of her cheeks as he kissed her cheek, her genuine smile as he wished her nothing but happiness, unlike her honeyed smile at his previous question._

_Are you happy, kid?_

_... Yes. I am._

"Russ, for _once_ in my life, I'm going to give it to you straight," Sims _finally_ speaks up, leaning forward, arm resting on the desk, "you're lying to yourself, man—so for once, it's time you own up to that shit and _tell her._ Even if it doesn't do much in the end, even if she still marries that douchebag—she deserves it. And you deserve peace of mind."

"... Even if I would, I can't—she declined that position I bargained with Hudson over. There's nothing I can do."

_Oh, there's that smirk, except not as snarky as he assumed. Moreso... averse, reluctant?_

"Well, I guess it's time for me to be honest," Sims remarks, leaning back, huffing out an exhale, "Hudson had her temporarily re-instated to the team as our head cryptanalyst."

In a fraction of a millisecond, the universe re-aligns itself counter-clockwise, initiating self-inflicted mercury retrograde on three years' worth of nightmares, sleepless nights, and (as of recently) one-sided hookups (all in vain attempts of forgetting her, always ending in immense failures, disappointments), accumulating into one word, born of utter astonishment, even dejection.

**_"What?"_ **

* * *

**two months later— West Berlin Safehouse**

_That was two months ago._

And in that time, nothing truly remarkable (and yet _so, so much_ ) has occurred—comes with its intricate complications, and its auspicious moments, full of promise, point them in the right direction after months of setbacks and misfortune.

Hudson's made questionable decisions before, however, there's much to be said about his choices in the team's latest acquisitions, returning members notwithstanding.

Baker's a loose cannon, at times, especially with that temper. Puts him at odd standoffs with Woods during their training hours (although Adler makes it absolutely certain that it is kept _off_ the field, within the walls of their safehouse and _only_ the safehouse), yet his skills and prowess as a Navy SEAL proves him invaluable, albeit temporarily so.

Ossou is young. Younger than Park, carries a drive and vigor he's long since forgotten how to feel. Her specialties in heavy weaponry prove her youth otherwise, her interest in vehicles has found her companionship with Sims, a commonality to bond over with.

_At least it's taken his mind off of that secretary, Cora-Clara._

A reliable sort, all things considered. Hudson promises more are yet to come, but only until they've made tangible headway on Stitch's whereabouts, or his team. Fair enough—until then, everything relies on the analysts' findings, cross-references from MI6, Weaver's networks in the east, Belikov's intel within the KGB and... oh, how could he forget?

 **Her**. If it hadn't been her cryptolinguistics program she and Agent Hoffman developed, most of the communications left behind by the Soviet network would've been impossible, something MI6 had great difficulty in deciphering, despite the massive intel arsenal at their back—hell, with Agent Park's task force on standby, still proves itself a challenge.

Aside from the obvious soldiers in the team (Woods, Ossou, and Baker, respectively), there was much to learn from Bell and her program, made him feel like a student receiving teachings from his teacher.

Most (if not all) of his time spent under her tutelage is filled with clipped sentences, displeased side-eyes, and passive-aggressive body language—of course, it's not complete without at least _one_ insult, on a good day.

_Wrong command-line, sir. Move aside, I'll handle it._

_With all due respect, sir, you can't figure out an algorithm from your ass._

_**H** **it** my computer **one more time** , see what happens to you._

Oh, he's not the only one at the behest of her assertive, zealous attitude—prior to her reinstatement and subsequent arrival at the safehouse, Hudson was the one bearing the brunt of her verbal assaults and silent glares (not that he blames her, no). Having been under the impression she's here _against_ her will rather than voluntarily, and she's proven his theories right since the moment she stepped foot into the dilapidated hallway, cursing at her superior (always under her breath, a routine habit of hers, it seems).

Although it wasn't taken with tight-lipped glares or threats of termination, Hudson made it clear that her tenure is temporary, short-lived... however, it could quickly change in the blink of an eye, lest she restrains herself and focuses on her job—teach code, decipher new intel, send the team where it needs sending.

Tonight, Philadelphia's against New Jersey once again, and while Park, Belikov, and Weaver are currently overseas—having returned to Century House and Langley, respectively—Woods, Ossou, and Baker are indulging in a risk-free, off-duty night, with cheap beer to lighten the spirits and crappy take-out somewhere in West Berlin. Adler trusts that the latter two can prevent another unfortunate bar brawl, memories of Christmas Eve appallingly intact in the recesses of his mind.

He's sharing a smoke with Sims amidst a hazy overcast, reminiscent of a recent downpour over the last several days, who also happens to be heading out to meet the rest of the team at a local pub once their smoke break is over.

A fact which leaves Adler with an indomitable, god-awful feeling in the pit of his stomach, because out of the nine members of their team (Hudson considers himself their self-appointed handler—fine by him—and Mason's enjoying his retirement back in Fairbanks with his son, David), only three remain at the safehouse.

Him, Sims... and Bell—with her head compliantly buried in intel, in _copious_ , detailed filings on Soviet networks and ancient writing systems, per Hudson's orders (in spite of the objections from Baker and Woods; having formed some semblance of kinship with those two, something he finds utterly incomprehensible), such a dutiful little agent, at heart.

Doesn't trust her to enjoy a night out, regardless of her chaperones. Won't even allow a gun on her person, having to ask either Baker or Sims (and only during training sessions, another direct order to bite her tongue at and wordlessly comply), keeping herself preoccupied with her latest mixtape, with occasional calls to Richmond.

To her _fiancé._

_Ridiculous._

It's _ridiculous_ , how her very presence is enough for such unbefitting thoughts, tinged with contempt and malice, to rise to the occasion, make its presence known in a matter of seconds, within a single breath. Nothing particular stands out, takes responsibility for its intrusiveness. She's just... _sitting there_. Working away, without a care in the world about her surroundings, enjoying the dulcet tune of _Every Breath You Take_ quietly playing on her Walkman. Keyboard incessantly tapping away—

—Two fingers appear before him, snapping quite loudly, enough to disturb her, pull her out of her thoughts to the source, which so happens to be his best friend, staring at him with that _stupid_ fucking smirk, ashing his cigarette under his boot.

"Keep starin', and you'll catch flies, Doc," he remarks as she turns back to her work, having realized it wasn't meant for her.

"Don't you have a game to catch with the Three Stooges down at the pub?"

"Indeed I do." Tugging on his jacket for enunciation, an act which falls short to amuse Adler (provoking an immediate eye-roll, for his efforts). "Hudson gave me the go-ahead like... five minutes ago? I'm just making sure all is well before I'm on my way."

_Like he really cares._

Adler takes a final, unhurried drag of his Red, absently nodding. "Of course—you're the epitome of a caring and kind soul, aren't you, Sims?"

"Just don't kill her before the night's over, Russ. Ossou and I just polished the LeSabre, and Hudson'll throw a fit if there's blood on the equipment. I'll see you in a few."

"No promises." Flicking the ashy stub at Sims' nice leather jacket, ignores the immediate one-finger salute in kind. "Make sure Woods doesn't kill anybody over a bottle of Tecate, and we'll call it even."

Leaves him to deal with that relentless, vicious feeling twisting his insides, coincides with the intensifying, staccato beats that the song relies on, the double-entendre behind its lyrics (is it romantic, is it terrifying?), jarring piano notes ringing out amidst the tune. He wonders how she can stomach that sort of music, a genre he personally doesn't concern himself with—at his core, he's a rock n' roll man.

Surely, she understands the underlying tones to it, yet chooses to ignore it in favor of its 'new-wave' shtick, or so Agent Hoffman claims whenever he's caught himself in her bed, once again.

Regardless of Bell's sentiments on the song, it enables her to work hard, in quick bursts of energy, which proves itself useful, gives them new insight into Stitch's operations—although the man in question has yet to reveal himself, thus far. Within the week, they'll have a new assignment, new locations. If Hudson's faith in her skills has been rejuvenated in consideration of her impressive work ethic, it means something.

Closing up shop, keeping out the chilly spring winds, he makes way towards her desk, pocketing his Reds.

Takes note of little things, speaks to her long, undoubtedly exasperating journey to her present life, residing near her computer, tiny slivers of home—another poem book, dog-eared, yellow sticky notes (condensing her thoughts into slips of paper; a Lord Byron novel, as it is), a monochrome Polaroid of her cat (Anya, he believes, despite hearing it only once from Belikov)... stunning engagement ring, catching on fluorescent lights, refracts across his aviators.

She only takes it off several times, to his count—training with Woods or Baker, routinely scheduled meal times, or now—her work time, typing away on her computer.

_Oh, it's a horrific idea, considering her feelings on this are well-known, a bear that doesn't need poking after the last time he asked._

"Need any help, kid?"

After his fist nearly went through her computer, he doubts he'll be granted privileges to it, but he's not much of a sports fan, and the playoffs take up a majority of the channels on their small, dingy television set (news, talk shows, fuck, he's sure there's some soap opera out there with a storyline _loosely_ based off it), so it's either treat himself to a round of training, or help out the greatest addition to the team since Agent Azoulay's request for a pinball machine in the back.

Again, not much of a sports fan, and pinball machines fall under said category, in his opinion.

Doesn't pause in her incessant typing, keeps her creepy-stalker song on repeat, but at least she entertains making eye-contact with him. It's a major step up, and that's saying a lot, considering their close (silent) proximity over the last two months.

A major step, which lasts all of five seconds, and she's back to her monitor screen—pointing towards a nearby stack of files, aptly labeled **_connections._**

"I've managed to figure out certain phrases and commonalities within the coded messages," she explains, directing the stack beside her computer, thumbing through until she pulls out a specific file that contains her messily scrawled handwriting, pages ripped from books (undoubtedly the books she requested of Hudson and Park a week prior), some containing minor corrections, other additions scrawled in bright red ink.

"It's not just Cyrillic script and Egyptian numerics, like we thought—it's ancient alphabets, language-centered systems. Morse Code, Phoenician alphabet—even certain sequences which were derived from the Enigma cipher in '41. The CIA and MI6 pulled a lot of strings to get me that information, and it puts into perspective just how far this operative is willing to go in order to privatize his footsteps across the globe, using dated languages, some lost in translation, beyond the point of re-discovery."

_Well... shit._

Kid's done her research, and it's extensive, having to reach beyond the boundaries and capabilities of major organizations like the CIA and MI6, hell, not even the KGB could've documented such a breakthrough.

Although in concept, learning ancient languages is a breezy walk in the park, evidently it's far from it, especially after having a glimpse at the encrypted codes Bell had to decipher on her own, without Agent Hoffman's input (despite Bell's numerous requests in the hopes of receiving her presence).

It's an amalgamation, an entirely new method of encryption.

As if entertaining a game of liar's dice, shaking it numerous times, all without knowing the results—resorting to half-assed guesses, anticipating failure. Just so... obscure.

Mixed together, which takes an advantageous brain to understand where one language ends and another begins, all without a comprehensive detailing to use as a resource until _well after_ you piece it together, noticing patterns and repeated symbols to narrow it all down.

"Skip ahead to the next chapter," she requests, pausing in her nonsensical typing, so she can swivel in her chair, make direct eye contact with him. Taking note of her thumb gliding back and forth across her callused palm, a repeated habit she tends to indulge in, depending on the circumstances—not that he's purposely noticed, as of late. "Additionally, MI6 was able to give me a detailed composition of the latest computing program used within sister cells in the surrounding Soviet countries, a common one."

Turning delicate pages, coincides with the rhythmic beat of her song, until he evidently finds what she's looking for (ignoring the sudden jolt in his chest as her hand shoots out, warm fingers skimming across bare knuckles, impulsively, perhaps?)

"Here. It's more of a group, composed of subsidiary languages, falling under one happy programming family—ALGOL. By all accounts, it's revolutionary in what was introduced into the umbrella of programming. Code blocks, lexical scopes, BNF... amazing components, all neatly put together and used almost widely across Soviet computing programs and computer systems. He's using ALGOL for records, research, data, most of it is archives from Rebirth Island and their biochem operations, dating back to the sixties."

_Oh, he has an idea of where she's going with this._

After all, it's impossible to ignore how her face lights up amidst her rambling, so passionate... descriptive of things in which he has no fucking clue about, much less understands, regardless if a narrowed, watered-down explanation is given (which he highly doubts is in his horizons, with how deep into it she's going). Seeing a passionate fire burn in her eyes, bringing out hazy, sepia-toned saturation to them... he's not sure what to make of his feelings, on the matter.

One thing is irrefutable, completely and utterly certain—he enjoys how _excited_ she is, under all that professional courtesy, her stoic mannerisms.

Humming in polite regard, a lilt of vague curiosity hidden just so. "Keep going, kid."

_Her smile is a rare sight, and **that** is the next best thing. Last time he saw such genuineness was Christmas Eve (stop it), moments before her inevitable departure._

"ALGOL contains the _how_ and _why_ on everything related to Nova 6, to Rebirth Island—and I'm almost certain _Enigma 2.0_ is for the _where_ and _when_."

His ignorance of such an extensive field aside, everything comes together in a simple, watered-down (which he assumed would be beneath her, only to be proven wrong, brings an air of approval, of pride, in her skills) sentence—they're manufacturing Nova 6 once again, and in time, she'll point them in the right direction after decrypting the latest (and with any sense of hope and good fortune, the last) message exchanged between an obsolete Soviet network, and its sister cell.

Glancing upwards through smokescreen aviators at her... _creative_ nickname for said communications logs, to which she takes immediate note of, shrugs with an air of nonchalance about her, amidst the subsequent addition of her engagement ring to its rightful place on her finger.

"It's a work in progress," she defends, albeit lacking dedication in her tone to prove it, "if that'll be all, sir, I'll get cracking down on the decryption and inform Hudson—"

"—You've been working around the clock since you arrived, kid. Take a break, Hudson can make do without having to know your every move, even on playoffs night."

 _You've earned it,_ goes unsaid, yet she appreciates it, all the same. Smiling politely at him, _finally_ turning off that complicated, frustrating machine of hers, outstretching her hand towards him (moreso towards the file, still within his grasp). He doesn't feel particularly inclined to give it to her, instead, he stands up, makes way towards her meticulous filing system—one of the few luxuries of a dated, fading world that's quickly making way for new modernity—returning it to its rightful place amongst copious others.

Silently, she re-organizes her workspace to its original integrity, accepts his assistance without fault, directing him if misguided, off-course from her routine.

It's... civil. Scratch that, it's _pleasant_ , such a far cry from the last time she was here, in 1981 (ironically right around the advent of spring, while they're living in it, rain battering against the garage doors and fills up the silence with its white, hazy noise.

Back then, there was nothing—she had a crippled hand, severed vocal chords, and a _burning, vengeful_ ire towards him, polite etiquette be damned.

He leans against a nearby table, unlit Red between his teeth (Zippo lighter burning holes in his pocket, although he finds himself feeling lethargic, uncaring) and his hands gripping the table's edges, just... watching. Seeing a brilliant mind at-play, even for elementary, basic tasks such as cleaning a workspace. Nimble fingers gliding across surfaces, thumbing through pages' worth of intel and data, ensuring it's all within its rightful place.

Furrowing brows, hard lines juxtaposing against a pretty face _(stop it!);_ her mind's running at the speed of sound, her body keeping up, just so.

He understands a fraction of what that's like—although his mind's split in two, that of a soldier (always on high alert, never resting)... or in a fugue state, static slipping through the cracks of his resolve, through foundations upon foundations of a man who's earned his position in life, succumbing to such numbness behind closed doors, in the dark.

Hers... oh, there's much to unravel, to understand its constant motion, its neverending tug-and-pull he's witnessed during vague, brief instances.

So unlike his own, a soldier through-and-through—hers is corporal, fallible. She's discovered what it means to live beyond that of simple existence; _humanity._

At times, he wonders what it's like to be so... _human._

Capable of feeling compromised without the accompanying pang of dread—a constant in his line of work, inevitable—always wondering when the next day will be the last, whether it's worth mulling over words, hoping it won't be the last words ever spoken. Things... things like regret, or fear, or love—oh, such things are lost on him, have been for quite a long time (a decision he's never second-guessed, never had to mull over, reconsider its gravitas)... things she feels on a constant, daily basis, surely.

He heard it in her voice on Christmas Eve, her first word to him in nearly three years, and it was his name, spoken with utter terror.

_Adler?_

It's not something to be proud of, being associated with emotions as tangible as terror, dread. Even if he's built his career on being aptly named _America's Monster._

And as he stands there—amidst the white noise of heavy rain, cigarette hanging uselessly on his lip, _staring_ at (for all intents and purposes, not out of spite) his subordinate, his _teammate_ , he's mulling over Sims' words, which have been promptly forgotten well within a week... only to reappear, two months down the line... ringing obnoxiously true, has his grip tightening on the chair over the _gall_ of it, the apparent clairvoyance it holds.

_You're lying to yourself, man—so for once, it's time you own up to that shit and tell her. She deserves it, and you deserve peace of mind._

A liar to the core, at his basest instinct, imprints itself within his sinews, tendons. It's a practiced art when it doesn't concern the skill of self-delusion, willful blunder in the face of irrevocable, immovable forces of nature and fate (how stupid a concept), he's good at lying to anybody other than himself, and in his line of work, _that's_ what keeps him awake at night, moreso than the demons clawing at his cerebral cortex—demons or fragments of those who were killed for the sake of killing? He doesn't remember.

Lying over his capacity to understand a semblance of normalcy, to live beyond existence as a soldier, as America's Monster.

Over his stubborn, unrelenting willpower in denying what is so unbelievably palpable, a harsh reality he's denied ever since she first walked out of his life, onto that tarmac.

Of three little words, which disintegrates on his tongue the moment it accustoms itself there, as he stares at his (last, good) reason for those words.

Settling for something else, simpler, easier to digest instead of _that._ An inevitability, however, can easily be suppressed for another time (if ever).

"You hesitated."

Meeting sweetly sepia eyes, wondering if blackbirds have made a home within her eyes, watching her movements still as she finishes clearing off the table before her. His mind is a shattered asylum of a thousand different thoughts, all screaming at him, pounding against his temples with white-hot fervor, all speaking different desires of him and yet falling on willfully deaf ears. _Don't do this, be honest with her, you can't have her, she deserves to know—_

— _Be quiet._

Pushes himself forward, a half-step, gauging her reaction (evidently, none, doesn't move an inch; her expression darkens just so, curiosity, perhaps). Well, his curiosity is piqued, as well. Wanting to know what murky waters he's stepping into before he even thinks to dive headfirst.

"Sir?"

A pause, moment of confusion sweeping across her features. Four seconds of silence, until—

"Christmas Eve—outside the bar, I asked you if you were happy."

Another half-step. Met with a half-step backward, not an easy sign... a tentative force, completely instinctual, on her part. Noticing a distinct swallow, scar on her neck raising against the sudden action, speaks of her fraying nerves without having to say anything.

"Yes, you did."

"Bell, I've spent a long time, working in the company of liars, and I'm no different. And I know a lie the moment it's spoken into existence. The hesitance of it, the implications behind it. It's a constant."

"Are you calling me a liar?"

An attempt to throw him off, easy manipulation, if he were an easy man to be manipulated. Re-directs his words, twists its meaning, even if her attempt falls short. He wonders if it's ever worked with her fiancé, considering the practiced indifference in which she speaks. It wouldn't be a surprise, it's a method his ex-wife grew fond of a long time ago, a sign of bad tidings. Although he finds speaking ill of a coworker's relationship to be beneath him, cheap and pointless.

Questioning its sincerity, though, oh, that is a completely different window of opportunity, done so out of morbid curiosity.

Surely, she can tell.

"I'm saying that you hesitated." A full step forward, leaving her with little room to escape (an unintentional method of intimidation, has her backing up against the table, with hands previously at her sides, now pressing against the edges of said table). "And I've experienced that sort of hesitation before—beyond our line of work, where it shouldn't have been, in the first place. So... why did you?" His tone isn't accusatory, more... concerned. He doesn't like that sliver of weakness slipping through.

Oh, she can try and lie her way through it. He'll swallow them all, encase them between his ribs, like dragonflies in amber.

Yet, something tells him she won't bother trying, too weary to entertain such ideas, so _tired_ of playing pretend—falling victim to the same denial he's enduring.

Another step and they are chest-to-chest. He towers over her just so, her head at eye-level with his throat and forcing her to look up. Planes and ridges of her throat are revealed in pale fluorescents, pink scar juxtaposes against her soft skin, swallowing back her undeniable fright (not of him, no—of the truth), and he finds her eyes with ease, searching for the answers she's so desperately trying to hide from him.

Afraid she'll ruin the life she's made. Understandable, but unnecessary pain for the sake of unnecessary pain. That stupidly creepy song, nearing its second crescendo, approaches its piano lilt and staccato pulses from its spot next to her desk.

_I dream at night, I can only see your face._

"Russell," she whispers, whispery voice tight with unease, _restraint_. "Russell—"

He doesn't mean it, not instantly, but his hand glides across her wrist, across the profile of her ring, its cold diamond digging into his skin. Rain reaches a surge of power, battering against the safehouse, thunder rumbling (lightning flickers across her beautiful face, within a fraction of a second), and he realizes that, she too, is perhaps a liar, not of the same caliber as himself, but close enough with how intimately familiar her lies are to his own, an exchange of unintelligible emotions.

Another second, two, three...

"Bell, I—"

Words barely escape him until it's inevitably swallowed up, but not of his own volition, no. Her lips surge forward against his, a heady passion breaking a three-year dam of suppression, denial, and hesitance _(and by God, is it a tidal wave)_ , her hands frame his face with airy gentleness, contrasts the neediness, the _powerful desire_ behind her kisses, nipping at his bottom lip within the seconds it takes for his mind to catch up and reciprocate tenfold.

Legs wrapping around his waist, giving him headway to hoist her onto the surface of the table, not pausing in their intensifying passion, not even for a second. Utterly destroyed in his senses, seeing, feeling, and hearing **_nothing but her,_** and finding he's quite alright with that revelation.

Her back hits the table hard, reveling in her sharp gasp and taking the opportunity to bite her lip, hand wrapping around the column of her throat and silently marveling at how _perfectly_ it fits against her skin, as if made for her, to hold her to him like a planet orbiting a star. His free hand—having already been on her waist to assist in her relocation to the table—goes up, past her belt, stopping itself short to make way beneath her high-necked, black skivvy, across her inked, scarred abdomen, going up—

Gravity shifts, a mercury retrograde that returns them into the clutches of biting, finite reality, all within a moment's notice, the first touch of his hand against her breast.

Her hands, frantic and unrelenting, pushes against his chest, separating them as the final notes of _Every Breath You Take_ echo across the room, the subsequent pause of her Walkman following suit. He takes note of her horrified state, how her hand grasps at her throat (engagement ring glaring at him with quiet wrath of a man he's met only once, but will surely meet, in time), kiss-swollen lips quivering in the wake of her newfound horror.

Starts to sink in, how low he's sunken... wholly selfish in his intentions to bring her with him, to the detriment of her engagement; her future marriage, at stake, because of _him_.

If it were any other time, he would've commented on how _beautiful_ she is, so utterly ravished like this. But it's not any other time—it is now, the present.

"Bell," he starts, ignoring the pulsating stutter of his heart, "shit—kid, I'm so sorry—"

_"—Don't."_

It is spoken with tangible uncertainty, yet carries the weight of _absolute fear,_ watching as she hurriedly makes way for her desk, grasping at her jacket and tugging it on with shaky hands, ignoring his meager attempts of apologizing, sepia eyes wet with frustrated, angry tears—not just at him, undoubtedly at herself, too, for wanting him. A man who isn't (and ultimately, will never be) her future husband—he is, and always has to be, her boss. Not a hookup, not like Agent Hoffman is to him.

Not that he'd ever consider her within the same room (hell, the same _galaxy_ ) as Hoffman. As it seems, he'll never get the chance to consider her as more.

Opening the garage doors just a sliver, hoping it'll deter him from following her—an action which falls short, once again, to do as intended. His hand catches hers, gently easing her backward, making eye-contact with utter _distraught_ and _anguish_ , having nobody to blame but himself for causing such pain.

_**"Let go of me."** _

Oh, she means every iota of icy contempt that weaves itself into one sentence, which holds the power to break him, splinter his soul across his chest cavity in retaliation for his selfishness, his morbid curiosity having opened doors which were never supposed to be touched, meant to collect dust in the recesses of his mind. Only to burst into flames upon his first, delectable indulgence of passion, a taste he's forgone after so many years of practiced temperance.

At a loss for words, finding that _I am sorry_ cannot (and will never) amount to what he intends to say, just... taking in her teary eyes, juxtaposed by a harsh scowl and clenched fists, utterly furious at the revelations exchanged with heady kisses and skin-against-skin, having no business being near her, not with her predisposition.

And yet... it's all he has to say.

"I am _so_ sorry," he repeats, voice hollow, pyrrhic.

"Goodbye, Adler," she seethes, making way towards her car—doesn't look back, knows he doesn't have the willpower to follow her, plead a broken record of a case.

Dirt billows up in the now vacant space, and he watches as the last good thing in his life leaves once again, and this time, he's entirely at fault for damaging something so precious, unworthy of being poisoned by his egotism.

Entirely powerless to stop her, as always.

* * *

_Agent Stephanie Hoffman arrives at the safehouse within the week._

Ignores her lingering glances, how her teeth worry at her bottom lip with anxiety, yet unmistakable lust.

Taking up space at a nearby desk—completely devoid of any lasting reminder of the previous occupant's belongings, having been promptly returned to its rightful owner, in due part to Weaver's sudden re-designation to Langley—a more permanent position, head of his own task force for reasons unbeknownst to him.

And with Agent Hoffman, comes a sudden revelation of _Enigma 2.0's_ decryption, revealing an individual location—The Pines, New Jersey.

 _"Gear up,"_ Hudson orders, picking up the telephone for his mandatory update to his executive, _"you all know your orders—capture the Russian, kill the rest."_

Their plane leaves within the hour, making quick headway for its intended destination, leaves no margin for error, not a moment to spare, backup en-route in an identical plane. Baker and Woods share a fist-bump. Ossou fixes her aviators on the bridge of her nose, while Park ashes her cigarette as the plane reaches maximum altitude.

He wonders how long it will take before the Russian breaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i go off on an unintelligible tangent halfway through? yes. am i sorry? only a little XD
> 
> four down, two to go! i'm not ready for it ughhhh :'( i feel like i screwed up on the coding jargon in this chap, and the historical references to ALGOL, historical computer programs/linguistics systems is the bare minimum of my knowledge on such topics, so forgive me for any inaccuracies, i'm learning on the fly, as you do lmaoo
> 
> (tbh i really made up a bunch of shit regarding bella's expertise in her field, not gonna lie XD)
> 
> as always, i hope you guys enjoyed this, and i hope you're all doing well :) and ofc i enjoy hearing your thoughts on this story so feel free to drop a message below :)


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